


Friday

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, During Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-30
Updated: 2006-09-30
Packaged: 2018-09-02 16:35:25
Rating: Teen & Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8674714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Years from now, all Dean will remember is the Friday Sam told him the truth. All he will remember is how he loved Sam, how he hurt him and how Sam left for the last time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**Friday  
Summary:** Years from now, all Dean will remember is the Friday Sam told him the truth. All he will remember is how he loved Sam, how he hurt him and how Sam left for the last time.  
**Rating:** PG  
**Characters:** Sam/Dean  
**Word Count:** 3,445  
**Warnings:** a slight rip-off of _Skin  
_**Author's Notes:** Beta'd twice; once by [ ](http://mf-luder-xf.livejournal.com/profile)[**mf_luder_xf**](http://mf-luder-xf.livejournal.com/) and [ ](http://agt-spooky.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://agt-spooky.livejournal.com/)**agt_spooky** , so thanks! This idea came from a prompt I found on a site once. Forget who said it, so sorry!  
  
 

\- - -

It was a Friday when Sam told Dean the truth. Dean knew that much for sure, even if everything else was wrong.

They were bloodied and worn from a nasty piece of work having just taken on a tamer version of the over-sized three headed dog that ruined his favorite pair of jeans and Dean had just toed off his boots, stretched out his arms until he heard the familiar crack in his shoulders and laid out lazily on the bed.

California heat and drying blood was too much for Dean to bear, and he called for Sam to turn up the air conditioning.

"It doesn’t work Dean, remember?" Sam whispered from a corner – Dean doesn’t remember where he was standing. He doesn’t think he ever will.

Dean remembers frowning, the light spilling from the open window and his shirt sticking to his back. "Why?"

"You kicked it," Sam mumbled and stepped out from nowhere. Dean remembers sweat dripping from Sam’s temples and blood was smeared under his right eye, in a small half-circle so the end was near the corner of his eye, reaching up to his temple. Dean still can’t believe he remembers that, but he does. "After it wouldn’t go any colder."

Dean remembers shrugging, like it was no big deal when he was actually going to sweat his skin off, but he wasn’t going to let Sam know that. He clicked through the channels – he could never remember what he was watching, but he knew that the volume was high and ringing, Sam was walking back and forth between the bathroom to his duffel bag, but the blood never came off whenever he returned from the bathroom and Dean scratched at the back of his head, fingernails digging into a cut he hadn’t noticed was there.

"Damn it," he remembers muttering, bringing his fingers back around to his face. He couldn’t remember seeing the blood, but Sam must’ve, because Dean remembers Sam rushing back from the bathroom with a wet cloth and the first aid kit in hand.

"Ah, Sammy, it’s fine," Dean remembers whispering, but Sam was pushing him to the edge of the bed. Sam crawled onto the bed – Dean knew, because he remembers Sam’s sharp knees digging roughly into his lower back – kneeling behind Dean.

The cloth stung more then it should’ve against Dean’s head and he hissed between his teeth. "Fuck Sam! What’s with the town water?"

There was a beat in an elongated silence and Dean could almost see Sam’s confused look. "It’s _rubbing alcohol_ dipshit. It’s gonna burn."

Dean nodded, rolled his shoulders and gripped the bed to brave the oncoming sting. It lasted for a few more minutes as Sam tried as gently as possible to clean the wound. Dean remembers stars in his eyes, though it was the middle of the day and a string of curses he would never repeat in front of any other living person. 

Dean never remembers Sam opening the first aid kit, bringing out the needle, threading it and warning him. All he remembers is Sam’s hand holding onto the right side of his face – warm, wet, and smelling of blood and rubbing alcohol – and a loud gasp escaping his lips unwillingly as Sam punctured his skin with the needle.

"I hope you disinfected it," Dean hissed through clenched teeth.  
_  
In. Out._ The needle stung like a bitch, but Dean just bit his lip. He could wait it out – he did and always would.

"I did, don’t worry." Something in his voice, Dean can recall, was cynical. "I spit on it."  
  
_In. Out_ \- quick and sharp. 

"Sam!" Dean hissed at both the sting and Sam’s bad attempt at a joke.  
  
_In. Out._

"Kidding!" Dean remembers only Sam’s breath against the back of his head, but no laughter. He was sure Sam was laughing, but his memory told him otherwise.

There was a silence that Dean remembers only too well, because what came after was the reason he remembered that Friday. In. Out. All the heat, blood and the smell of iron, salt and rubbing alcohol making him light-headed and dizzy should’ve drowned it out, but it was too sharp and too real in his mind.

A gurgle in the back of a throat – not Dean’s. A cough, and the thread pulled tighter for only a mere second.

"I love you, Dean."   
  
_In._ Beat. _Out._ Slower this time.

It was almost too faint – Dean thought he had misheard Sam. But it was in and out and Sam pulled a little too hard on the string. Dean’s head jerked to the side and he gasped. 

"Yeah, Sammy, but I’m not dying, man. It’s only a cut," Dean tried to laugh it off, but Sam had stopped – only for a moment and then it was _in, out._

_In. Out._ The thread tugged on his head and Dean felt his skin lift. 

_"_ I know. I – just so y’know," Sam mumbled and concentrated on closing the wound. 

Dean sat very still for a few minutes, letting Sam’s fingers brush away his hair and trace the outline of his neck as the pain intensified, as his skin began rejecting the thread. He gritted his teeth and tried not to cry, because Dean never cried, but it was so damn hard. He remembers drawing blood from biting his lip, but he never worried, because he had lost enough blood in his life to never let it hurt.

"I really mean it," Sam whispered, Dean remembers. Close to his ear, hot breath sweeping across his cheek. "I love you. Maybe more than I should."  
  
_Out._ Tug. Snip of scissors and Sam was tying a knot at the end. He pushed away from Dean and suddenly, all the heat left Dean’s body. He stared up at Sam, his fingers shaking. Sam stared back at him, blank and unreadable. 

"What?" Dean managed to say.

Sam blanched, his face twisting into shock and embarrassment and he shook his head, as though it would rid his words. "It was – y’know what? Never mind. Just act like I never said anything. Just like usual."

"Sam," Dean managed to say again. "Sam, wait."

Sam was halfway out the door, keys to the Impala in his fingers – bloody from Dean and his own cuts – and his jacket resting around his shoulders. A pause in Sam’s step and he was holding onto the wall, head bent low. 

Dean stood from the bed, his legs weak from the rubbing alcohol and closing wound. Or maybe it was Sam’s words? Sam’s eyes. Everything, Sam. Dean couldn’t remember, but he was guessing the latter. 

"Sam, tell me the truth." Dean remembers the heat of Sam’s arm, the shine of tears in his shadowed eyes and the smile that turned at the corners of his mouth. "Tell me everything."

And he did. Dean sat and took it all in stride as Sam whispered secrets of years past never known to Dean. Never known to Sam. Dean didn’t lie to himself and say it was all a joke; all a dream. He nodded and understood, for Sam. Dean noticed Sam trying not to let himself break, but Dean saw his brother struggle with it, especially when he was telling Dean everything he had sworn to keep to himself – hoping it would pass – and Dean not saying he felt the same way too.

Sam told Dean the truth on a Friday afternoon in a hotel in the most unlikely place for a three-headed dog of Satan to be lurking around, but then again, any dog with more than one head lurking around anywhere was pretty damn unlikely. Everything in Dean’s life seemed unlikely, but he accepted it all as just nature and the way things were supposed to be, because his life would never be the same as others.

That’s why, when Sam told Dean the truth, Dean took his brother into his arms and held him there, close to his chest so he could feel Sam move against him. Because he was going to accept it – like he had wanted to for the longest time.

\- - - 

It was a Tuesday when they found the demon. 

They didn’t know what they were getting into; only that people were claiming they had no recollection of the events of the night or day before. All signs pointed to possession – or severe cases of amnesia all across town – but Sam and Dean decided on the first option because they hadn’t found anything better in the last few days.

It had been two weeks since the truth came out and they were eight states over, four nights wiser in their ending innocence of things previously unknown, unheard of, and definitely never tried and they didn’t know that the manager could actually hear them at night. The first time they got the look, Sam turned a miraculous shade of bright red and Dean just smiled warmly at the old woman, nodded curtly and dragged Sam out of the office by his elbow. 

He remembers shaking with laughter as Sam mumbled about being caught and how they could never do that again. Five minutes later, Dean had pulled to the side of the road and Sam’s pants were already coming off.

They sat in the local coffee shop; Dean remembers drinking coffee that burned his tongue and Sam was clicking away at the computer. Dean remembers Sam’s fingers on his thigh, a grin tugging at the corner of Sam’s mouth and he remembers trying hard not to fuck Sam right there.

After that, he can’t remember.

\- - -

Dean sometimes remembers; but he knows for sure is that he wasn’t himself that Wednesday.

He can vaguely recall his fingers grasping for something solid in that dark alleyway behind the bar. Eyes in the shadows; black and reflecting his terror and sometimes, Dean remembers a scream, but he can’t really tell if it’s just his head making it all up.

It wasn’t like anything he had ever felt – it was painful, but rapturous. He felt the presence dark and strong in him, tearing at his bones. Or maybe it was his soul? Dean didn’t really know. All he knew is that he – his true self – was pushed into the recesses of his mind and he could almost see the damned thing right there. Right in front of his eyes.

But how could he, when he was _it_?

He remembers Sam’s fingers brushing his neck – Sam was yelling and saying he had passed out – and the feel of rocks and cool pavement on his back. That was clear in his mind and it amazed him how he could remember it, when he wasn’t even really there. Just in the back of his head, powerless and trying to tell Sam not to touch him, not to talk to him.  
  
_It’s not me, it’s not me!_

But no sound came. 

He felt the demon smile up at Sam, onyx eyes shining behind his own hazel ones and say something that Dean had to ignore. The demon knew; it knew everything. Its long talons dug into his mind, searching for all the secrets and memories only he and Sam were supposed to know.

And it knew.

And Dean knew.

But Sam didn’t. So Sam smiled back down at Dean – he remembers and that’s what made Dean want to tear his own body open to save his brother – and lifted him to his feet and the demon moved Dean forward. It taunted Dean, laughing at how he was going to break Sam. Break him to a point where even he couldn’t mend him ever again.

Dean had screamed, but he knows he wasn’t heard. He knew that much.

\- - - 

Dean remembers Sam bound and gagged, strapped to the chair. 

He remembers Sam trying to cry out for Dean, tell him that he could push past the demon and Dean wanted to believe him. Oh God, did he ever. But as much as he tried, the demon fed off of his laughter and memories – the better times and it made Dean shrink further to the back of his mind.

He remembers tying the dirty cloth tight in Sam’s mouth; he remembers watching Sam fight against the ropes, his wrists tearing open and bleeding from the struggle. 

Dean remembers Sam’s eyes, large and screaming for help from the brother he believed could fight through. But Dean couldn’t; he just couldn’t.

But most of all, he remembers the words; spoken from his lips, the sound of his voice loud and ominous in the room. Dean never remembers the lights being turned off, but as he watched helplessly from the recesses of his mind, all he could see were Sam’s tears as his own finger traced the outline of his brother’s sweat soaked face.

"Did you know he never really loved you?"  
_  
Not true, Sammy, it isn’t true!_

Sam’s head twisted away from Dean’s fingers, corrupted and stained with the demon’s plans and objurgation, and he grunted into the cloth. His lips were bleeding, Dean remembers. They bled from the corners, where the rough fabric scratched and tore, where he tried to breathe and speak.

"He just used you... he was lonely, needed something quick and willing –" Dean remembers his tongue, hot and thick, swiping across Sam’s ear. "– something like you, Sam. Something always there... he just needed. You always say how he thinks with his downstairs brain."

Dean was sure he was going to cry, but he had no control over his body. Tears wouldn’t come as Sam leaned further away from his touch, groaning against the chair and fighting the ropes. 

"Don’t try to get away from me," Dean remembers hearing his voice saying, sharp and angry, in Sam’s ear. "It’s true. It’s all from inside his head, Sam. It’s all true. Why would Dean, your own brother, your own flesh and blood and –" Dean remembers his face tight and drawn out in his smug smile, "– supposed _lover_ , ever lie to you? Why Sam?"

Sam pushed against the chair, tipping his back to free his face from Dean’s fingers, tears slipping between the cracks of shut eyes and damp lashes. He didn’t move or make a noise as Dean whispered quiet and soft in his ear:

"Because he’s hiding the _truth_ , and I have it all here." Dean remembers laughter – his own, but not entirely. It was cold. "He finds you a burden – something to carry around on his shoulders because Daddy told him to. He wants you gone; he blames you. Blames you for everything – for him being a freak, for him being who he is."

_Sam grunted in protest and Dean laughed. Still cold, Dean remembers._

"Don’t believe me? Because he said those three special words? What if you were to switch love with hate. With despise. With... _used_."

Sam’s eyes snapped open, terrified. A sudden and shocking realization crossed his face.   
  
_No Sam! Don’t believe him!_ Dean remembers trying to claw his way back to his own self; trying to take control once again, but the darkness had cloaked his bones with an unmovable force.  
  
_I’m breaking him slowly, Dean. Just like I promised._

Dean was sure it was over; he was sure he had lost Sam forever, he was sure he had lost the battle. But then, a tear slipped from his eye and suddenly, he was falling forward into Sam, his body exhausted and worn. 

Dean remembers his eyes fluttered and closed and he breathed when he told himself to. He pushed himself off of Sam, stared at his hands and Dean remembers being himself. He remembers laughing and hugging Sam and untying him from the chair and more laughter. Relieved and jubilant laughter. 

Dean remembers Sam rubbing his wrists and mouth, blood smearing on his fingers. Dean remembers Sam’s eyes; narrowed and wet and searching. Searching for the truth as to what the demon had said.

"Did he mean it?"

Dean remembers the words; he remembers staring down at Sam and actually wondering – the demon did know everything, he had told it out perfectly. How could... how could what he said not have been the truth? If it was really from his mind – Dean remembers trying to find out if it were true, reaching into the darkest corners of his mind to see if it was the truth – how could it not be true?

All those times – Dean remembers all those times he hesitated, wondering if it really was what he wanted. If it was really what was meant to be, between him and Sam. Dean remembers all the times Sam whispered in his ear and it took a moment, a second of prolonging, for him to reply with a few short words. Was it really what he was destined for? To love his brother?

Dean remembers looking at Sam, waiting for Sam to speak first after he had bowed his head. Dean remembers his shirt was soaked with sweat and rain. He remembers the clock ticking and his own breathing ringing in his ears. 

But Dean doesn’t remember Sam getting up and pushing him into the wall, though he does remember his head hitting the wall. Dean doesn’t remember what Sam yelled at him, but he remembers the tears flying onto his face; a furious storm raging down on him. He remembers Sam’s nails digging into his shoulders – maybe there was blood, but he can’t be too sure anymore – and he remembers trying to speak, but he couldn’t.

He just couldn’t find the words.

The demon had broken Sam, like it had promised. It had broken him beyond Dean’s repair.

It had broken Dean too. Making him wonder and doubt – making him second guess the inevitable truth with all its masterful lies. And when Dean broke, he broke Sam along with him – took him along with the fast, plummeting fall to their end. 

Sam was broken – like the demon had promised.

\- - -

Dean doesn’t remember sleeping. He doesn’t remember waking. He doesn’t remember Sam’s body near his during the night, though he’s positive it Sam never slept. 

He doesn’t remember the noise of Sam trying to silently pack the next day or the day after – he doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember feet and clothes and bags flying over the room but there probably was.

He doesn’t remember the feel of a gun pressed against his chest, placed by Sam’s trembling fingers, though over the days, it looked entirely tempting to use.

But he remembers blood on his face – Sam’s blood – dried over the night.

He doesn’t remember Sam’s goodbye. He doesn’t remember Sam saying he would never come back, but he guessed when Sam never returned his calls or never showed up in the middle of the night, he wasn’t going to. He doesn’t remember Sam’s glare, Sam’s beat of hesitance and then the slamming of the door and Sam was gone forever. Dean doesn’t remember the goodbye.

The goodbye he wished he could actually hear for once.

\- - - 

Dean doesn’t remember the days, doesn’t remember the nights that followed. The anger that followed, the guilt, the remorse, the torture. The feeling of I could’ve done something. He won’t allow those painful memories to resurface. Sometimes, if he tried really hard, if he drank a lot more than needed, if he just believed it... it never happened.

He can't remember if it was even night or day, or where he was sitting, laying, pacing when Sam decided to walk out of his life once again. He can't remember how he got dressed or how he slept during the first few nights – or even if he did. He can't remember the date, if it was summer or winter, if the sun shone or if it rained. 

He remembers the sting of warm whiskey down his throat, making an endless shower seem inviting as it washed away the tears and the back of Sam's head leaving; the images on repeat, skipping back to the beginning of their untimely end, where he could relive his mistake over and over.

Dean can't remember the day that Sam left – if it were a Tuesday or a Saturday – what Sam said... only his eyes. Raw and tortured, revealing a soul deprived of something it wished it could have. Dean can't remember and he won't let himself remember, because all he needs is that Friday afternoon, a bright California day in a hotel with dark green carpet and the stain that's burned into Dean's mind.

All he needs is that Friday. For the rest of his life. 


End file.
